Wicked Little Town
Title: Wicked Little Town
Author: Jess
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The boys belong to J.K.R, Wicked Little Town belongs to John Cameron Mitchell and the Hedwig Team
Notes: This is what happens when I listen to Wicked Little Town from Hedwig and the Angry Inch on repeat.....Although I originally wanted to do it from all Draco's P.O.V but sadly my typing fingers wouldnt let me :( I hope this fic works
Forgive me for I did not know/'cause I was just a boy/And you were so much more
The last time he had seen him was five years ago, and yet despite all the grime and dirt he would know the boy anywhere. No, not boy, not anymore, man. He would know the man anywhere. The last time he had seen that face it was contorted in fear. He had been such an imposing presence all through his school days it was almost disappointing to him that his last memory had been of him looking so, so small. Small and helpless.
Just like he was looking now.
He hated it.
This wasn’t right. He had countless times looked for that exact same face on the battlefront, hoping to erase the memory of it looking scared and replace it with something else. The face distorted in anger, disgust or even icy distain, anything to give him a bit of normalcy in his life. However, he never saw him, never even caught sight of that ice blonde hair, although once he saw his father and mistook it for him, but only once, and he never made that mistake again, he had the scar to remind him not too.
After it was all over, after the battle had been done, the bad guys brought to justice, he found out that he was never on the battlefield, that he would have never seen him because he was gone. Missing. Or more accurately, abandoned somewhere in the middle of England by a disgruntled Death Eater turned spy who dismissed him as a liability. For days after he had learned that information all he could do was cry and stare listlessly out of his window at St. Mungos and then after he was released he used up all his energy and power to right that wrong and then find him. There were many who never forgave him for that, after all the man was a war hero and the boy endangered a whole school, letting in Death Eaters and Werewolves.
But that was the thing. The thing they missed. He was just a boy.
He didn’t know why he did it. What drove him to do it, they were never friends, he had refused that, didn’t shake his hand. He did know one thing; they were the same, they both held the weight of the world on their shoulders and they both thought they had nobody to talk to, they both felt they where alone. If they didn’t do what they were expected to do then people died, but then people would die even if they did do what they were told. What ever one did, it would effect the other in painful ways. And yet they couldn’t say no, they didn’t have a choice.
They were both boys.
And now they were men.
Than any god could ever plan/More than a woman or a man/And now I understand/How much I took from you/That when everything starts breaking down/You take the pieces off the ground/And show this wicked town/Something beautiful and new
He bent down and picked the bundle up, cradling the man in his arms, noting with silent distress how light he was and how frail he felt. The ice blonde hair was no longer bright and luscious, but dank and dirty, almost brown. The aristocratic face was streaky with dirt, gaunt with malnutrition, which ironically emphasised the sharp bone structure he had always been proud of. Black heavy bags hung from his eyes, which were still the same piercing grey which he remembered from school. Only now they were looking at him with scared trepidation and hope, not distain like in his memories.
He takes him home, careful not to let anyone see him, not that anyone came round anymore, not after he had made it quite clear that he was prepared to go through with his plan, to find him. They didn’t understand anyway. He undresses him and throws away the pitiful rags which when he sees what they are he has to go into another room, away from him, to cry. They are what remains of a school uniform. A dull green badge with a silver snake emblem alerts him to that fact.
After bathing him gently, he then feeds him some soup which is promptly thrown up again and then puts him to bed. The blonde is fast a sleep in moments and he sits all night, awake, watching over him from an old chair beside the bed. He wakes once, briefly, opening his eyes and saying one word; Angel.
The routine goes on for weeks, which then turns into months. The soup replaced with more solid foods, the bath becomes a solo effort, his chair gets transformed into a bed which eventually gets moved into his office. He adds other things to the routine. They sit and talk for hours, they go out walking in muggle London, deftly avoiding the place where they found each other again, they visit museums, art galleries and go shopping. Their kisses and touches, at first hesitant become more pronounced and forceful. The transfigured chair-bed, becomes a chair once more as they wrap their bodies around each other at night, seeking solstice, warmth and comfort.
They become wrapped up in themselves and each other, revelling in the self imposed exile. They don’t talk about the war or those five lonely years after. They stick to the here and now avoiding the past like the plague. He knows its unhealthy, that they should talk about it but he doesn’t want to bring up a subject which brings so much pain to both of them. The here and now, that’s what they live for; Harry and Draco.
You think that luck has left you there/But maybe there's nothing/Up in the sky but air
Maybe he should have listened to his own advice. Don’t bring up the past and all its pain. But he is too inquisitive, it is part of his nature. Too nosy for his own good Hermione used to tell him back when they talked, back when he listened to her. But he had to know, what had happened to Draco for those five years. What had he done? Where had he been? How did he survive?
Their argument had been monumental, rivalling their school days. And he, Harry, could not stop pushing, even when he could see that he was getting nowhere and was hurting him. He had to know. But why? He didn’t know that.
And now he had left. Slammed the door in his face, never wanted to see him again, didn’t want him, didn’t care, didn’t feel anything.
Bullshit.
But all he can do is sit and stare at his hands and wonder why. Why did he have to know? Why couldn’t he leave it alone? The past was in the past. The here and now. Right?
And there's no mystical design/No cosmic lover pre-assigned/there's nothing you can find/That cannot be found/'cause, with all the changes you've been through/It seems the stranger's always you/Alone again in some new/Wicked little town
All he can feel is anger. Anger at himself for being so weak and stupid. Anger at Harry for being too stubborn, for pushing the issue, for not seeing that it doesn’t matter anymore that everything was forgotten whenever he held him, kissed him, loved him. Anger at them for bringing things up. Anger at the whole world for not fucking leaving him alone, for letting have this. Happiness.
He had walked for what seemed like miles from the flat that they shared, seething, murmuring dark curses and kicking stones up with his feet. He walked with his head down, blindly ignoring the stares and worried glances thrown his way by passers by, only stopping when he grew tired. Sitting on a bench he looked out on to the river which was bathed in lights which could not penetrate the darkness which was beginning to set in. He just sat there and stared, shivering against the cold wind and berating himself for not grabbing a jacket as he stormed off, Not grabbing a jacket and some money, he accosted himself,
at least Snape had given him some money before he had abandoned him, it had been worthless wizard money, but it was something all the same.
The anger began to slowly disappear as the cold set in to his bones. He understood what he had to do and so he sat there and waited.
So when you've got no other choice/You know you can follow my voice/Through the dark turns and noise/Of this wicked little town/Oh, it's a wicked little town/Goodbye wicked little town
It didn’t take Harry long to find him, he knew it wouldn’t. A warm jacket was draped around his shoulders and warm arms snaked around his chest pulling him closer.
“I’ll tell you what happened-” he started.
“I don’t need to know.” Harry’s deep voice cuts him off.
“Lets go then.” He smiles.
“Lets go.”
x-posted
I'm looking for this fic: Draco takes a vow of silence because many years ago Lucius cast a spell on Harry which would be come in affect after Lucius' death. This spell makes Harry insult everyone near him and the only way to end it is to take a vow of silence, which Draco does, but he isnt allowed to tell anyone why he has done this. Also in the fic, Draco becomes a male model and Dean Thomas is an artist. It is annoying me no end that I cant find it, and its sequel which is just as good...if anyone can help I'd be most thankful! FOUND!
Author: Jess
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The boys belong to J.K.R, Wicked Little Town belongs to John Cameron Mitchell and the Hedwig Team
Notes: This is what happens when I listen to Wicked Little Town from Hedwig and the Angry Inch on repeat.....Although I originally wanted to do it from all Draco's P.O.V but sadly my typing fingers wouldnt let me :( I hope this fic works
Forgive me for I did not know/'cause I was just a boy/And you were so much more
The last time he had seen him was five years ago, and yet despite all the grime and dirt he would know the boy anywhere. No, not boy, not anymore, man. He would know the man anywhere. The last time he had seen that face it was contorted in fear. He had been such an imposing presence all through his school days it was almost disappointing to him that his last memory had been of him looking so, so small. Small and helpless.
Just like he was looking now.
He hated it.
This wasn’t right. He had countless times looked for that exact same face on the battlefront, hoping to erase the memory of it looking scared and replace it with something else. The face distorted in anger, disgust or even icy distain, anything to give him a bit of normalcy in his life. However, he never saw him, never even caught sight of that ice blonde hair, although once he saw his father and mistook it for him, but only once, and he never made that mistake again, he had the scar to remind him not too.
After it was all over, after the battle had been done, the bad guys brought to justice, he found out that he was never on the battlefield, that he would have never seen him because he was gone. Missing. Or more accurately, abandoned somewhere in the middle of England by a disgruntled Death Eater turned spy who dismissed him as a liability. For days after he had learned that information all he could do was cry and stare listlessly out of his window at St. Mungos and then after he was released he used up all his energy and power to right that wrong and then find him. There were many who never forgave him for that, after all the man was a war hero and the boy endangered a whole school, letting in Death Eaters and Werewolves.
But that was the thing. The thing they missed. He was just a boy.
He didn’t know why he did it. What drove him to do it, they were never friends, he had refused that, didn’t shake his hand. He did know one thing; they were the same, they both held the weight of the world on their shoulders and they both thought they had nobody to talk to, they both felt they where alone. If they didn’t do what they were expected to do then people died, but then people would die even if they did do what they were told. What ever one did, it would effect the other in painful ways. And yet they couldn’t say no, they didn’t have a choice.
They were both boys.
And now they were men.
Than any god could ever plan/More than a woman or a man/And now I understand/How much I took from you/That when everything starts breaking down/You take the pieces off the ground/And show this wicked town/Something beautiful and new
He bent down and picked the bundle up, cradling the man in his arms, noting with silent distress how light he was and how frail he felt. The ice blonde hair was no longer bright and luscious, but dank and dirty, almost brown. The aristocratic face was streaky with dirt, gaunt with malnutrition, which ironically emphasised the sharp bone structure he had always been proud of. Black heavy bags hung from his eyes, which were still the same piercing grey which he remembered from school. Only now they were looking at him with scared trepidation and hope, not distain like in his memories.
He takes him home, careful not to let anyone see him, not that anyone came round anymore, not after he had made it quite clear that he was prepared to go through with his plan, to find him. They didn’t understand anyway. He undresses him and throws away the pitiful rags which when he sees what they are he has to go into another room, away from him, to cry. They are what remains of a school uniform. A dull green badge with a silver snake emblem alerts him to that fact.
After bathing him gently, he then feeds him some soup which is promptly thrown up again and then puts him to bed. The blonde is fast a sleep in moments and he sits all night, awake, watching over him from an old chair beside the bed. He wakes once, briefly, opening his eyes and saying one word; Angel.
The routine goes on for weeks, which then turns into months. The soup replaced with more solid foods, the bath becomes a solo effort, his chair gets transformed into a bed which eventually gets moved into his office. He adds other things to the routine. They sit and talk for hours, they go out walking in muggle London, deftly avoiding the place where they found each other again, they visit museums, art galleries and go shopping. Their kisses and touches, at first hesitant become more pronounced and forceful. The transfigured chair-bed, becomes a chair once more as they wrap their bodies around each other at night, seeking solstice, warmth and comfort.
They become wrapped up in themselves and each other, revelling in the self imposed exile. They don’t talk about the war or those five lonely years after. They stick to the here and now avoiding the past like the plague. He knows its unhealthy, that they should talk about it but he doesn’t want to bring up a subject which brings so much pain to both of them. The here and now, that’s what they live for; Harry and Draco.
You think that luck has left you there/But maybe there's nothing/Up in the sky but air
Maybe he should have listened to his own advice. Don’t bring up the past and all its pain. But he is too inquisitive, it is part of his nature. Too nosy for his own good Hermione used to tell him back when they talked, back when he listened to her. But he had to know, what had happened to Draco for those five years. What had he done? Where had he been? How did he survive?
Their argument had been monumental, rivalling their school days. And he, Harry, could not stop pushing, even when he could see that he was getting nowhere and was hurting him. He had to know. But why? He didn’t know that.
And now he had left. Slammed the door in his face, never wanted to see him again, didn’t want him, didn’t care, didn’t feel anything.
Bullshit.
But all he can do is sit and stare at his hands and wonder why. Why did he have to know? Why couldn’t he leave it alone? The past was in the past. The here and now. Right?
And there's no mystical design/No cosmic lover pre-assigned/there's nothing you can find/That cannot be found/'cause, with all the changes you've been through/It seems the stranger's always you/Alone again in some new/Wicked little town
All he can feel is anger. Anger at himself for being so weak and stupid. Anger at Harry for being too stubborn, for pushing the issue, for not seeing that it doesn’t matter anymore that everything was forgotten whenever he held him, kissed him, loved him. Anger at them for bringing things up. Anger at the whole world for not fucking leaving him alone, for letting have this. Happiness.
He had walked for what seemed like miles from the flat that they shared, seething, murmuring dark curses and kicking stones up with his feet. He walked with his head down, blindly ignoring the stares and worried glances thrown his way by passers by, only stopping when he grew tired. Sitting on a bench he looked out on to the river which was bathed in lights which could not penetrate the darkness which was beginning to set in. He just sat there and stared, shivering against the cold wind and berating himself for not grabbing a jacket as he stormed off, Not grabbing a jacket and some money, he accosted himself,
at least Snape had given him some money before he had abandoned him, it had been worthless wizard money, but it was something all the same.
The anger began to slowly disappear as the cold set in to his bones. He understood what he had to do and so he sat there and waited.
So when you've got no other choice/You know you can follow my voice/Through the dark turns and noise/Of this wicked little town/Oh, it's a wicked little town/Goodbye wicked little town
It didn’t take Harry long to find him, he knew it wouldn’t. A warm jacket was draped around his shoulders and warm arms snaked around his chest pulling him closer.
“I’ll tell you what happened-” he started.
“I don’t need to know.” Harry’s deep voice cuts him off.
“Lets go then.” He smiles.
“Lets go.”
x-posted
I'm looking for this fic: Draco takes a vow of silence because many years ago Lucius cast a spell on Harry which would be come in affect after Lucius' death. This spell makes Harry insult everyone near him and the only way to end it is to take a vow of silence, which Draco does, but he isnt allowed to tell anyone why he has done this. Also in the fic, Draco becomes a male model and Dean Thomas is an artist. It is annoying me no end that I cant find it, and its sequel which is just as good...if anyone can help I'd be most thankful! FOUND!